He is beyond good.
He smirks at me.
His flowers set the mood.
He's leaving around three.
In ecstatic air, I tremble.
A doom to walk without.
Life drops the tin-cup thimble.
When ladies' whispers shout.
The babies, barefoot, scramble,
-the glee of glowing cheek.
A wealth, as thus, cries ample.
Her mama's touch is meek.
Skirts and bows and ribbons stand.
Starched, vicarious holy land.
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